


Silk and Lace

by Diary



Series: Unwelcome Visitor [2]
Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Ambiguity, Awkwardness, Background Relationships, Bechdel Test Fail, Late Night Conversations, Minor Charles Brandon/Brigitte Rousselot, POV Charles Brandon, POV Male Character, Post-Season/Series 03, Sequel, Talking To Dead People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 09:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11825592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diary/pseuds/Diary
Summary: Repost. Sequel to Even Death Doesn't Stop Her. Charles Brandon continues to deal with the dead but still opinionated Anne Boleyn. Complete.





	Silk and Lace

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own The Tudors. 
> 
> Author's Notes: As in Even Death Doesn't Stop Her, this is a mixture of the show, real life history, and my own personal headcanons.

"This is your fault."

Her dark eyes hover above him, and she quietly responds, "Henry wanted a son. Haven't we discussed the pilgrims being safe if I were still around? Yet, it's so much easier, isn't it, to blame a woman whose only fault was the inability to bear a living son?"

Before he can answer, she continues, "I refuse to indulge you, my dear duke. You can blame your wife's separation on me, or on the pilgrims, or even on Henry. The fact is, you are the reason she left. A man who jumped from bed to bed, she would have accepted, though not as tolerantly as some. A man who yearns for his prince's love. A soldier. But not a killer of English children and women whose only crime was to try to cling to their men."

Taking another sip of ale, he mutters, "On the outside, you were silk and lace. On the inside, however, you were nothing but an opportunist Queen of Ice."

"Such poetry," is her tart reply. "It won't win her back. Take comfort, though, you still have Henry. Or rather, he still has you."

…       

"Must you always come?"

In response, she smiles prettily, and he shudders.

"I haven't visited in a long time. Have you not missed me?"

Some part of him surrenders. Anne Boleyn was impossible to contain when alive, and it's time to accept that even death cannot contain her. "Say what you must, and then, begone."

“‘To your good health, madam’. My poor, stupid cousin. What will you do?"

"Hope to God she has more sense than she lets on."

Charles sighs, for he doesn't want to acknowledge the truth of this statement. Henry is his friend and his Prince, and keeping such suspicions is treason.

There’s slight  hint of sadness in her tone when she tells him, "She doesn't.”

He’d already known, but hearing it from her, of all people-

“Though, this change in you is interesting. If Catalina had given you reason to suspect adultery, you would have pounced. You did take full advantage of my more flirtatious nature, despite knowing in your heart I wouldn't have done such a thing."

"My heart knew no such thing."

"Perhaps not. But you knew how intelligent I was. Whether you believe I would have betrayed a husband who was not a king, you knew that I never would be fool enough to commit adultery against my King."

"I did," he concedes. "Henry didn't, however. You let him see your overly-emotional side, your cunning side, and you showed how irrationally impulsive you could be."

"Is that what you tell yourself when you see my headless body in your dreams," she calmly inquires. "Poor little duke. You've grown, and you must now learn to live with all you've done. Unfortunately, your heart doesn't make that easy, does it? Henry used to be the better man, and that's how you preferred it."

Closing his eyes, he begins to count. At thirty-six, she says, "Goodbye, your grace."

…

Sighing, Charles sets his cup down. "You're here?"

"Yes."

There's a long silence, and he snaps, "Well, out with it."

"What is there to say, your grace? Your Harry wanted another wife, and you helped him get her. I'd ask if you were not happy, but the truth is, you've been unable to experience true happiness since the words, 'I, King Henry the Eighth, take thee, Princess Catherine, to be my lawfully wedded wife', were uttered. After a time, it gets tiring taunting you with what we both know."

"Funny. I don't find it tiring to see you flinch when I mention your brother, your daughter, your father."

"Yes, you do. Look at you, my dear duke. You've become nothing but a morose shut-in, only coming when he calls. I don't know what's more pathetic. The fact that the man who helped engineer my downfall has completely lost himself or the fact that he doesn't even wish to find himself, again."

A feeling of incredulousness washes over him, and he asks, "Are you trying to express genuine pity?”

If so, she's not trying particularly hard, but there is something in her tone he's heard in the past but has never been directed towards him.

"Do you believe me real?"

He isn't sure how to answer that.

"Good luck in France, your grace."

…

"I'm not drunk, and I haven't gone a week without sleep."

"You have a dreadful fever.” Her hand settles close to his cheek. "I've always had a fondness for the French. So did Henry, before he decided an English Rose was better."

"I love her," he retorts.

Her dark eyes are highlighted by her raised eyebrow and scrunched nose. "Do you wish to know why I'm better than you, your grace? It's because I, unlike you, am honest. The only possible lie I ever uttered was my promise to bear Henry a male heir. And you, whatever you may say in public or in private between you and he, know that I intended to keep that promise and tried my hardest to do so."

Leaning down close to his ear but still not touching him, she whispers, "She's not your redemption. Being faithful and kind, that isn't going to wipe away all the young, foolish women you seduced with pretty words and fine gestures and discarded as if they were nothing more than rotting meat. It isn't going to make up for the hurt you caused Henry's sister. It isn't going to nullify the fact you helped torture Catalina of Aragon, took away Princess Mary's place as her father's pearl, killed my brother, our innocent friends, and me and ensured my daughter grew up with no parent's love. It's not going to wipe away the dreams you have of the pilgrims. You've convinced her to love you, and perhaps, this time, you'll be able to keep that love. Yet, in the end, there will still only be one who holds your heart, and your soul will still be stained with all that you've done."

The door opens, and Brigitte enters with a basin of water in hand.

Blinking, Charles sees it's only he and her in the room.

…

"He's killed you."

Charles looks over to where Brigitte is still dozing. Quietly, he says, "He loves me.”

"You can feel death approaching, can't you? Why do you not call for a priest?"

He looks at her. "And deny you your chance for vengeance? Whatever the afterlife holds, I'm sure you've amassed great power. When I come, you will try to influence what happens to me."

She sighs. "In all of this, none are truly innocent." Curtsying, she says, "Goodbye, Charles Brandon."

Bowing his head against the pillow, he says, "Goodbye, Anne Boleyn.”


End file.
